Iconoclast
by AnchorageUnpainted
Summary: A calculated encounter with a cafe waitress leaves far too many variables for Loki to juggle in his grand equation. With his plans falling apart around him and only a month until the Chitauri are ready, he finds himself having to rebuild his well-laid schemes and, quite possibly, his blackened heart. Rated M for safety.


New York.

The name of the city felt positively wrong rolling off his silver tongue. It was an ugly word, fitting of such a hideous, writhing, smoldering cauldron of human life. The concrete walls and paved streets held no fascination for him whatsoever. He'd lived in towers of gold; these towers of mirrored windows and aging brick were no comparison. He hated the sight of them. He hated the sounds that constantly, unceasingly echoed throughout the city and bounced off of these glass and steel towers.

It was with great disdain that he pressed through the crowds, trying to keep himself from scowling at the rank masses. They all smelled of offices and paper and things he dared not imagine himself doing. It was impossible not to bump into them and he mentally cursed at each person, checking his coat sleeves as if they'd left some sort of human residue on the charcoal-colored wool.

When he'd reached his destination, a hotel labelled "Luxury Suites", he sighed heavily. This place had been listed as the cleanest, most opulent boarding in all of the city, but he saw no reason why it was any better than the apartment complex across the street. It was guilded with false gold and gaudy crystals that made him roll his ice-blue eyes in disgust. One look inside the lobby told him that, by human standards, it was nice, but by his standards it was equivalent to sleeping in the Allfather's stables.

The clerk, a rather short and round woman whom he guessed to be in her fifties, chirped at him from behind a thick layer of glass.

"Do you have a reservation?" she asked, raising a painted-on eyebrow at him when he shot her a glare.

"Penthouse, madam," he shot back.

The woman pecked away at her dingy keyboard, squinting at an outdated monitor to read the reservation ticket. He tried not to stare at her during this process but her makeup wasn't helping the situation - he didn't understand why she had blue shadow up to her obviously fake eyebrows, or why she chose to slather her face in what looked to him to be a thin layer of dried mud. It was just one more thing that he chalked up to the human quirks and averted his gaze to the greenish-white marble countertop.

"Mister...Clarke?" she squawked.

"Yes."

"Here. I need you to sign this sheet, insurance reasons, and I need your payment."

She slid a piece of paper beneath the glass to him along with a pen, her ridiculously long nails scratching against the bottom of the metal slot and making him flinch. He scribbled a name over the assigned space and slid it back to her, but then he realized he had no reason to pay her.

"I believe I've already paid for this stay," he said simply, watching the words rattle around beneath her greyish-red hair.

"Have you? Did you reserve online?"

"I did."

"Well it said here on the computer that you haven't paid..." she started, turning back to her computer screen, but he held up a timid hand to the glass.

"There must be a mistake. I've paid in full for my stay, and I distinctly remember speaking to you over the telephone about certain amenities I require, Mrs..." He looked quickly to her nametag without faltering. "Mrs. Dorothy, if I recall. Don't you remember?"

She paused for a moment, tapping her nails on the countertop in thought. "You're the one who said he was coming here from England aren't you?" she queried.

Internally, he was relieved. Humans were so easily persuaded.

"Yes, and I thought that everything would be in order when I arrived," he answered. "Now, may I have my keys?"

"Sure. I'll get the manager down here to fix your payment as soon as he gets back from his smoke break."

The woman, though already short, seemed to shrink even farther when she hopped down from her stool and hobbled around to a board of room keys. Of course, his key was almost out of her tiny reach and she had to grab a broom to knock the key down from its peg.

"Enjoy your stay," she said, shoving the keys beneath the glass. "Oh, and breakfast is served down here at 9 in the morning."

"Thank you, dear madam, but I'm more of a night person," he told her. He was already halfway to the elevator, wishing to erase the image of such a strange little woman from his head.

The elevator let him out in a short, claustrophobic corridor with only one door in or out. He fumbled with the lock angrily, vowing to wash the keys with scalding hot water once inside, but as soon as he had the door open he was taken aback by the spaciousness of the room.

It was larger than he expected, but this was optimal. He'd need space to carry out parts of his various plans. Especially if he was to house workers.

The floors were wooden and the room had a surprisingly modern feel to it, obviously having been remodeled to shed the false glamour of the lobby below. Before him lay an open kitchen, complete with an island and bar that separated it from a den with leather furniture. He didn't care for the view, even though the wall-to-wall windows looked out over the tops of the city, and he meandered into the bedroom to check in on where he'd be sleeping.

It was livable, he decided, running a hand over the silver douvet on his king-sized bed. Certainly not nice enough for an Asgardian prince, but it would have to do.

* * *

**A/N: The later chapters will come with a song that inspired me while I was writing. I hope you guys like this one! I have another one coming up also but it will probably be posted under Thor instead. Let me know what you think. :)**


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